I thought he
would let go my arm, but he did not, and for the few yards of road
that remained I could not see out of my eyes. I said to myself, "He
is holding my arm,--perhaps he loves me." I was a fool; of course,
it meant nothing; and I am certain, too, that it was imagination on
my part led me to believe he looked differently at me when he said
good-bye.
That is what frightens me. Of course, it was pure self-delusion;
but, if I am going to begin that sort of folly, it is high time to
come away. Indeed, the folly of it. Besides, I suppose I ought to
feel ashamed. I am sure he knows now quite well that I love him, and
perhaps that is why he looked strangely at me when he said good-bye.
But I don't want his pity; O God forbid! Nor his, nor anybody's. Do
you hear? Never pity me, Constance.
Your little
EMILIA.
LETTER XXVII.
February 12th.
Could you meet me a little sooner, perhaps, and not wait until the
twenty-third? I must leave Graysmill at once.
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